Ashes of Time
by lil7miss7sarcastic
Summary: A trophy wife who thought she'd moved on, an old love who'd never forgotten her and the city that never sleeps. AU/AH Klaroline.


**So here is a two-or maybe three-shot loosely inspired by Gossip Girl (I used to ship Chair before Klaroline). This is very different from what I usually write and frankly I'm not very satisfied with it so I'd love some brutal honesty.**

* * *

_"And in the end, we were all just humans… drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness."_

_F. Scott Fitzgerald_

_._

_._

He stares at her long, tapering fingers as she taps the cigarette almost casually against the ashtray and brings it to her full, red-painted mouth. He watches in fascination as she takes a drag and slowly exhales, studying him under dark hooded lids.

"I thought you stopped smoking," he asks, just to make conversation.

This is the first time in seven years, is what she says.

Seven years, since I last saw you, is what she doesn't add.

**xxx**

She deletes the voicemail as soon as she finishes listening to it. It's almost like a reflex, her fingers jumping into action before her brain could process the information.

_Caroline, I'm standing in, if I recall correctly, one of your favorite places in the world, the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park, surrounded by loud tourists, lost souls, furtive lovers, and all I can think about is you. I know I made you a promise, a promise you expected me to keep, but maybe you'll let me break it for once. I'll be here till seven. Waiting for you._

She manages not to think about him the entire time Camille does her nails. Bastard didn't even bother leaving his name behind, just assumed that she'd know it was him, she thinks savagely while her nails are buffed and polished into perfect half-moon shapes, ignoring the fact that she _did_ know it was him.

That honeyed, accented voice needs no introduction.

**xxx**

Hours of procrastinating, many subtle glances at her Lady-Datejust Rolex (third anniversary present from Tyler) and countless squares of nicotine gum later, Caroline makes it to Bethesda Terrace with minutes to spare.

For a while, she admires his silhouette against the fading daylight streaming through the arches, all made up of crisp shadows and sharp lines, and then he turns, hands in the pockets of an incongruous Armani suit, and stills.

"Hello, Caroline," he says, with a small smirk, as if he really hadn't been surprised by her arrival, despite his request.

"Klaus," she breathes. She stands there, a blue cashmere scarf knotted tightly round her neck, and can't help but shuffle her patent Miu Miu pumps awkwardly.

He makes her feel like a teenager again. And she hates it.

**xxx**

Beauty queen of only eighteen, she was in London when she first met him. She'd been staying with Katherine in an apartment owned by her best friend's uncle John, in Mayfair. The first two-three days had been sublime, with Caroline and Katherine shopping in Harrods on their parents' credit cards, dancing the night away in clubs that were rumored to be frequented by the younger British prince, and waking up to hot cups of tea on their charming wrought-iron balcony, soaking up the weak English sunlight.

That is, until Katherine met Elijah Mikaelson.

All of a sudden, Caroline found herself spending more and more time alone in the apartment, eating blueberry-flavored macaroons and watching Audrey Hepburn movies for the hundredth time, or window-shopping on Bond Street unaccompanied by the sassy brunette who always encouraged her to try out that "sinful lingerie" or those "drop-dead gorgeous shoes". Feeling morose and secluded, she couldn't _wait_ to go back to New York.

That is, until Caroline met Klaus Mikaelson.

**xxx**

They're sitting on a park bench overlooking the lake, their hands a hairsbreadth away, but their knees separated by a wide gulf of unspoken words.

"How long are you in the city for?" she finally asks.

"Leaving day after. Morning flight," he answers, not quite looking at her.

"Oh," is all she says.

"Have dinner with me," Klaus suddenly says, cerulean eyes locking with hers, making every nerve in her body tingle.

Despite herself, Caroline laughs. "Klaus, you _do_ know that Tyler-"

"-is in San Francisco. On a business trip," he interrupts. "Katherine told me," he adds, in response to an arch of a shapely eyebrow.

Caroline doesn't know whether it's deliberate or not, but her left hand hovers near her ear, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind, and the emerald-cut Harry Winston ring glints in the dying light. His jaws clench at what he perceives to be a reminder, a reprimand.

It _is_ a reminder, a reprimand, but not exactly for him.

"We'll go as only friends, I promise. I'm meeting Stefan Salvatore and his wife at 9 at the Plaza."

She tells him that she'll think about it but _oh look at the time, she really must go_. And all that is left behind of her is an empty Styrofoam coffee cup and the lingering scent of Chanel no. 19.

**xxx**

She had been sitting all alone in the corner of a lively pub, a stoic fixture in an otherwise jovial atmosphere, when Katherine had bounded up to her, "summer fling" in tow, and said in her signature low, raspy voice, "I want to introduce you to someone."

A little further away, stood Elijah's younger brother with an utterly bored expression on his face, clad in an ash-grey Henley and fitted Levis. He looked at her, tilted his head a little and then smirked.

It was dislike at first sight.

They spent majority of the night trading acid-tinged barbs and snark-coated insults while the best friend and the brother wrapped themselves around each other, only a few feet away, as if they would never let go.

Things started looking up when Klaus mentioned that he was an artist; he then had been pleasantly taken aback at the spark in her eyes and the animation in her gestures as she talked about art history, one of her lesser-known passions. They waxed eloquent about underrated painters from Antwerp, heatedly discussed Monet vs. Renoir and exchanged favorite van Gogh quotes.

_For great things do not just happen by impulse, but are a succession of small things linked together_, was her favorite.

_And putting little white dots on the blue-black canvas- this is not enough to paint a starry sky_, was his.

Caroline had just been getting ready to head out, swinging her sequined Dior bag over her shoulder, when Klaus paused in the act of opening the door for her and said, hesitation in his voice and uncertainty in his eyes,

"Friends then?"

**xxx**

She should be planning her mother-in-law's annual charity gala at the Met, but instead she finds herself holding up a deep wine-colored Elie Saab sheath dress, which was deemed inappropriate per the Lockwoods' color palette of black and beige, in front of her full-length mirror.

She sighs and runs a manicured hand through blond tresses. The dinner's in two hours and she still hasn't called Klaus. Correction, she's almost called him a number of times but the words have always died on her lips between the time she jabs the green button and the first ring.

What Caroline wants the most at that moment is, to _inhale_. She wants to pull on that aromatic stick and feel the smoke drift across her tongue, down her throat and straight into her lungs. Instead, she pops a piece of nicotine gum straight from the foil wrapper into her mouth and calls Tyler.

It goes straight to voicemail.

* * *

**Oops that was anti-climactic. Lol.**

**The next part will be up in a couple of days, where more of their history will be revealed.**

**- S.**


End file.
